Exhibitionism with My StepmombyPositiveThinker©
"Don't come in! I'm not dressed. Get out!"
Finally, on Christmas morning, of all days, after having lived with her in the same, small apartment for six, happy years and after having tried to see her naked for six, frustrating years without success, I caught her. I saw her. She was naked. That was the last time I saw Carol.
Too focused on her naked body, I didn't notice that she was upset. I didn't see that she was crying. Too immersed in my own personal perversion of catching her naked, I didn't know she had been crying all night. I didn't realize she was leaving.
My mom died when I was young. I don't even remember her and had my Dad not saved some old, black and white photos of her, I wouldn't have known what she even looked like. She looked like me or rather, I look like her, blonde hair and blue eyes, just like my Dad, too.
He since remarried, but by the time he remarried, I was older, twelve-years-old. I never considered his second wife my Mom or Stepmom, even, just his second wife. Forced to live with her in the same, small apartment, she was a total stranger, as far as I was concerned. In the beginning, I didn't want anything to do with her. Consequently, I always called her by her name, Carol, instead of Mom. Besides, later, as I got to know her and grew to like her, she felt more like my older sister than she did my mom.
At a time when people are supposed to be happy, Christmas Eve, I remember they were arguing all night long and the next morning, too. They were always arguing or more accurately, my Dad was always yelling at her, calling her names, and being abusive to her. My Dad turned up the Christmas music that played on the radio, and while Nat King Cole sang chestnuts roasting in the fire, my Dad's temper heated our small apartment to an unbearable temperature.
Now, every time I hear that song, I think of that fateful night and turn it off. When I hear that song, I think of Carol. I no longer think of her naked, but crying and hurting. She was my friend and I abused her friendship on the pretense and for the perverted pleasure of seeing her naked. I wasn't there for her in her time of need. I didn't help her and now she's gone.
They fought a lot, but this time was different. This time, I heard Carol's voice. Normally, I'd only hear my Dad yelling at Carol, but this time, she was yelling at him. I never saw Carol mad. I never heard her raise her voice to my Dad before. I stayed in my room with the pillow over my head. I didn't want to hear them arguing, not now, on Christmas Eve of all days. They ruined my holiday.
It was selfish of me to think that, but I was still just a child really, just eighteen-years-old, an immature man. Their marriage, just as their inability to get along had nothing to do with me and how I felt. This was real and was all their problems, not mine. This was life, their lives, and I was no one but a bystander in this tragic accident of humanity, only there because there was nowhere else for me to go.
The next day, when my Dad and I sat by the Christmas tree opening gifts, the only gift for Carol was from me. There was a stack of presents from Carol to me and to my Dad, but not one gift from my Dad to Carol. I held my tongue wanting to ask him and against my better judgment I did.
"Where's Carol's gifts? Did she take them with her?"
"I didn't buy her anything," he said in his gruff voice and I knew enough not to ask him to explain, only, I hoped he would.
He didn't say, I didn't buy her anything, Johnny. If he had said my name, I could have asked him why he didn't buy her anything and why she left. Yet, by not saying my name, much like the punctuation at the end of a sentence, was his way of telling me to drop it and I did.
Didn't buy her anything? How could he not buy her a gift for all that she's done for him? How could he do that? I wanted to ask him what happened. I wanted to ask him if she was coming back, even though I knew she wasn't and had already been replaced by Debbie, his new, younger girlfriend. Christmas that year with just me and my Dad wasn't the same and would never be the same again.
Debbie didn't cook. She didn't clean. She didn't do laundry. She didn't do anything but give my Dad what Carol wouldn't a blowjob. I guess, at this point in time, that's all he wanted and all he cared about getting was blown by a woman young enough to be his daughter.
I was angry. How could he do that to Carol, the woman who cooked and cleaned and put up with his foul temperament? He's such an asshole. It was at that moment that my Dad taught me how to treat or more correctly, how not to mistreat a woman.
At first, when he brought her home, I didn't like her. I thought she'd be a wedge between my Dad and me. Yet, as the time passed, she was my sounding board, my life preserver, and my best friend. I liked Carol, I really did. She went to bat for me with my Dad, smoothing the way with her calm manner and fearless in the face of his violent temper.
She was nice and I was sorry to see her leave, especially in that way, when my Dad dumped her for a woman half his age. The sorrow that I felt for the loss of her was as if she had suddenly died. One minute she's there and then, without so much as a good-bye, she's gone. I mourned her loss, as I would the loss of my Mom, had I been old enough to know she had died.
His new girlfriend was twelve years younger than even Carol and only six years older than me. I guess you could say that I had a crush on Carol, even though she was much older than me. I didn't like Debbie. I couldn't stand her voice and her stupid talk. In the words of Forrest Gump, "Stupid is as stupid does," and that's what she was, stupid.
She looked trashy. She was always chewing gum and saying stupid things that someone, who at least graduated high school, wouldn't say. I couldn't imagine playing Scrabble with her. It wouldn't be any fun. I'd win every time. And I had no interest in wanting to voyeur her skanky assed body. She was a real deutsch bag.
My Dad didn't want any more kids and Carol couldn't have kids, so it was just the three of us. With my Dad always working, he worked 5 1/2 days a week, most days it was just Carol and me. Now, Carol is no movie star, but she's an attractive woman with a nice body, I know because I saw her in her two piece swimsuit more than once, and before she left, I saw her naked.
Boy that was something seeing Carol naked. Immediately, my eyes went straight for her tits. There were other tits I've seen in men's magazines that were too big or those I've seen in movies that sagged. A time before breast implants, even Sophia Loren had saggy tits, but Carol didn't having saggy breasts that were too big, they were perfect.
Shapely and round with pink nipples, they stood up high, as I imagined they did when she was my age 18-years-old. Then, my eyes fell to her pussy. It was neatly trimmed. The exposure of seeing Carol naked, finally, only lasted a few mere seconds, but it was long enough for me to burn a lifelong impression of her naked body in my mind.
Making my way through puberty with Carol, I spent my teenage years trying to see her naked and never did, until that fateful day, when she was packing her bag to leave me and my Dad. I didn't know she was leaving at the time. I didn't know she was upset, which is why she didn't hear me come home from a friend's house and open her bedroom door, until it was too late.
"Don't come in! I'm not dressed. Get out!"
Too late, I already saw her naked. In hindsight, maybe that was her parting gift, her Christmas gift to me, for me to see her naked, finally. I don't know, but it makes me feel better to think that and to believe that she did that for me, so that my journey along my rite of passage, from virginal boy to experienced man, would be easier, after finally having seen my first naked woman, having seen Carol naked.
Twice my age, she wasn't that much older than me. She was thirty-six when I was eighteen. My Dad was nine years older than she was when they married six years before. She was thirty and he was thirty-nine. Now, that I think of all the woman in my Dad's life, he was a pig. Only, Carol was nice, real nice. Not knowing the treasure he had with her, he found a gem, when he discovered her.
We got along. We were friends. Now, that she's gone, gone for good, I miss her. I think of her a lot, wondering where she is and who she's with. I wish I could run into her one day. I'd like to ask her what happened between her and my Dad. I'd like to apologize for my Dad's behavior. I'd like to give her the Christmas gift that I bought her and carry around with me, still wrapped in paper with a ribbon and Christmas card, in the trunk of my car.
This story is about the time that I went to college. The college campus where I went was less than a mile from my house, so saving on a dorm room, I stayed at home, while attending school. Carol enjoyed my company. When I wasn't out with my friends or studying, we watched a movie together or played Scrabble, while my Dad worked.
Now, that I think of her life, she must have been bored. She didn't work. My Dad didn't want her working outside the house. It was a time just before woman's liberation and my Dad wanted her home cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, and taking care of me and the apartment.
Filled with testosterone and always feeling horny, I had developed a strong sexual attraction to Carol. The physical attraction was so strong, that she looked better to me than she really was. Yeah, there were prettier women, younger women, women my age, but there was something special about Carol that captivated me. We connected on a level that I never connected with any other woman since.
Part of the pure physical attraction, no doubt, was because I had never been intimate with a woman and she was the only woman that I was around and wanted as much, and because of the fact that I was at my sexual peak. I used to jerk off three to five times a day back then, while thinking about Carol. Now, I'm lucky if I can do it once a day.
Carol had shoulder length brown hair, bright brown eyes, was about 5'5", and weighed about a 120 pounds. A size six, she wasn't a bad looking woman. It's funny, when I think about her, remembering her face, she looked a bit like an older version of Gwyneth Paltrow with brown hair, but with a better body.
What I liked about Carol was that she was comfortable in her skin. When she was home alone with me, she stayed in her nightgown or wore a bathrobe with nothing underneath, or a loose blouse and a short skirt. She wasn't immoral, but she wasn't modest, either. I guess she thought of me more as the young boy I was when she first met me, instead of the young, horny man I grew to become and the perverted man who lusted over her.
I never thought that Carol was exposing herself to me purposely, but now that I'm older, in hindsight, maybe she was because there were so many times that I saw bits and pieces of her body that I shouldn't have seen. I don't know, maybe she got off flashing me and would masturbate, while alone in her room later, as I did, over what I saw and what she showed.
Maybe she was even attracted to me. I'd like to think that she secretly was. I'd like to think that is why she left my Dad or my Dad threw her out, because she was in love with me.
Maybe she confessed to my Dad that she loved me. Maybe he felt that it'd only be a matter of time before I'd be cheating on him, his only son, with his second wife and fucking her. Maybe, knowing my Dad, the fact that she wanted a younger man, me, it hurt his machismo more than his decency to understand the feelings and desires of those who loved him.
Yet, then again, I was a horny teenager always looking to see what I could see. Maybe it was all just accidental and I was at the right place, at the right time, to see so much of what I saw of Carol. Besides, I was purposely looking to see. Maybe she wasn't flashing, as much as I was looking.
Any time I saw her panty or bra or a part of her breast or had a nice view of her upper thigh, that was enough to give me masturbation material that night and/or the next morning. Actually, just seeing her bra strap or the top of her nylons, where her garter connected was enough to get me aroused. Seeing any part of her was enough to give me a lifetime of images that I could recall and masturbate over later, whenever horny.
A typical day for us was when my Dad had already left for work. We'd wake up around the same time. We only had the one bathroom, so we had to pre-plan our shower times. I'd get up pee and make coffee, while Carol took her shower. Then, I'd take my shower, while she dressed.
I was accustomed to seeing her blow drying her hair, while wrapped in just a towel. I'd stand in the doorway talking to her over the blow dryer, while filling my imagination with the naked image of her. Hoping to see more, hoping that her towel would, somehow, suddenly slip, wanting to tickle her to make her towel fall, I never saw much more of her than her cleavage and her thighs. She had wonderful cleavage and shapely thighs.
She had B cup breasts and a cute body with a nicely shaped ass. I found myself staring at her ass a lot, especially when she wore tight jeans. When she did, I was mesmerized by her ass. She looked really good in tight jeans, with each of her ass cheeks being cupped and defined by her jeans. Yet, it was a time when women wore short skirts and dresses more than they wore jeans.
Carol used to stay up late at night and watch television with me, while in her sheer nightgown and clutching a pillow to the front of her. We had a new color TV console that everything looked green, except the faces; they were neon orange. She loved watching television. It was her window to the big world outside, I guess. Shunned by many of the women in the neighborhood, people who had lived there all their lives, she didn't fit in with women who didn't wear makeup and didn't watch their diet. Weary of her, jealous of how she looked, they all acted as if Carol was going to steal their husbands.
My Dad was already in bed, when Carol and I were up watching TV. My Dad was in bed every night by 10pm and out the door by 7am to get to work by 8am. Except for the news, Rawhide, Bonanza, Gunsmoke, the Untouchables, and later, Mission Impossible, Dad didn't watch much TV.
He never got home before 6pm, a long day for him. I don't remember him hugging her, holding her, or kissing her. He barely talked to her, other than to ask her about the apartment and about the bills that needed to be paid. I don't think he and Carol had much of a sex life and I wondered if he just married Carol to give me someone to keep me company and someone to take care of him and the house. When she wasn't doing laundry, she was always cooking and cleaning.
It's funny that I can see now that I used Carol, just as much as my Dad did. I stayed up watching television with Carol, while hoping for a glimpse of some part of her body. My hopeful stares were most times rewarded with a flash. Only, much like a cop on surveillance, with one eye on the television and the other eye on her, I had to stay vigilant, so that I wouldn't miss the flash when it happened because when it happened, it happened in the blink of an eye.
It was best when there was a chick flick on because, when she reached down to grab a Kleenex, she gave me a view down her nightgown top of much of her breasts. I loved looking down her nightgown top, because she wasn't wearing her bra and I imagined I could see more than I saw. I imagined I saw her nipples.
I imagined that I was married to her and that she was my wife and, as her husband, I was able to reach down or up her nightgown any time I wanted to cup, feel, and caress her breasts, while fingering her nipples or fingering her pussy. I never saw her nipples during those peeks down her top, but I enjoyed imagining that I had. It gave me something more to masturbate over, when I was horny, which was all the time, especially whenever I was around Carol.
Then, when she was engrossed in the movie, moving around on the couch trying to find a more comfortable position, she always gave me a glimpse up her nightgown of more of her leg. Sometimes, her nightgown hem would catch in between the couch cushions and when she moved, it climbed higher up her body exposing the top side of her thigh, nearly up to her hip. That sight of her naked leg always gave me an immediate erection. I imagined I saw her pussy more than once, but it was always dark, with the only light in the room coming from the green screen TV.
Only, whenever she remained like that, with her legs parted a little and her nightgown askew, so involved in the movie, that she didn't even notice she was showing me something she shouldn't, I'd turn on the overhead light pretending I was looking for something, while looking over at her. She'd be so engrossed in the movie, that she never noticed me staring. As she never wore panties, while wearing her nightgown, I saw her pussy a few times, at least, I think I did.
Only, until that day that I saw her naked, the last day that I saw Carol, I only saw her in a collage of bits and pieces. A down blouse view here and an up skirt view there, it was difficult to put them all together to get a real image of what she looked like naked, but I enjoyed thinking about her naked, using the bits and pieces to form a total image, while stroking my cock day and night, fantasizing about Carol sucking it.
I looked forward to her raiding the fridge late at night. As soon as she opened the door of the fridge, the light passed through her nightgown making it virtually see-through. That was a view that always gave me an erection and I always wondered if she knew she was giving me a view. Maybe, she did. I liked to think she was doing it on purpose to tease me. Maybe, she took pleasure in driving me mad with sexual desire for her. Clearly, I could see the full outline of her breasts and nipples, her ass, and even her pussy hairs. How could she not know for God sakes?
Generally, after coming home from school, we played Scrabble during the day. By that time, Carol was fully dressed. She liked playing Scrabble. Now, that I think about it, she must have been bored to tears with no one to talk to and interact with all day. Other than the soap operas, there was no cable TV, DVD's, video games, and Internet, back then.
Certainly, I didn't mind accommodating her. I loved spending time with her. She almost made me feel that she was my girlfriend or, at the least, my older sister or kissing cousin.
It was the sixties, a time of the mini skirt, a time when women were starting to raise their voices in discontent of not having the same opportunities as men and being tired of feeling subservient to them. Most times, she wore a short skirt and a low cut top with panty and bra underneath. She had nice legs and I imagined my hand feeling her legs, traveling the length of her thigh to a warm, wet place between her legs, nirvana. She sat on the couch and, too far for me to reach the Scrabble board from the other side of the room, while sitting in the chair, I sat lower on the floor with the coffee table between us.
Unless she kept her knees tightly close, which she seldom did, feeling relaxed enough not to be on guard in her own home, with her sitting on the couch and from my vantage point of sitting on the floor, I had the perfect view of her panties during most of the game. She had pretty panties, every day a different pastel color, yellow, pink, green, and blue. My favorite panties were the white cotton panties and the sheer ones that, when squinting and staring, I could discern her camel toe and pubic hair. My least favorite were her black panties. Much like looking into a black hole, I couldn't see anything but darkness when she wore those. Seeing her panties, having her pussy there, within reach, always made me so horny and hard.